


Going Postal

by stuckinastory



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, LJ to AO3, Oldfic, this is from 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinastory/pseuds/stuckinastory
Summary: Andy loves taking photographs, Miranda's just a bit of a skeptic about the results.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 3
Kudos: 110





	Going Postal

**Author's Note:**

> In my little Miranda/Andy universe, they have a kid named Andrew Caddaric. He shows up a lot in my stories. He's generally adorable.

It all started the day she found that black, leather-bound album.

Andrea had just moved in to her townhouse, and while officially she slept in her bedroom, the brunette had asked for a room of her own. Miranda gave her the key and the space to the second guest room. So the second guest room had been Andrea’s unofficial bedroom, with her books, her trinkets, and all the other unnecessary things that had absolutely no space in _their_ bedroom. In a matter of days it had shelves, a desk, a lamp, frames hanging on the wall, and a collection of toy cameras. One day, when Andrea had gone to Central Park with the children, Miranda went into the room and looked around. She then saw the album on one of the shelves and took it, looking at the pictures from the privacy of her study. The pictures were all spectacular—there were shots of mountains, rivers, buildings, and random people. They had texture, depth, and dream-like colors. The black and white shots were mesmerizing.

Naturally, when Andrea got home, she asked who took the pictures. It turned out that the younger woman took them. Miranda laughed at the idea of taking pictures using those old, plastic cameras that looked like they belonged to a toddler and not to a serious photographer. Andrea shrugged at her and made dinner. They never talked about the album’s contents again.

Miranda Priestly leaned on her bathtub, her ivory neck arched elegantly on the surface, her eyes opening and closing briefly in time with the breaths that came out of her mouth. Andrea had been gone for a month, covering the ongoing race for the Democratic Party nomination. She was due home in a few days, but Miranda still missed her.

She sighed.

An ivory hand snaked down her body, creating small ripples in the water, but stilled when it reached her thigh. Miranda closed her eyes intently. She balled her hands into fists and released a breath that she didn’t even know she was holding. She wanted to, but it just never felt the same. It hadn't, for a long time. She heard the doorbell, heard a few doors open and close, and as she lay in the bathtub, hoping for Andrea but not expecting her arrival, she heard footsteps and a knock on her door.

“Mom,” Andrew’s voice came through the door. “You’ve got a package. I’ll just put it on your bedside table.” The footsteps then scampered out of the bedroom and died out.

Silly her, she didn’t even bother to ask who sent the package. A few minutes later, she was out of the bathroom, in a robe, choosing from a wide selection of nightwear— _that she didn’t really need_ , a voice in her head said, and it was Andrea’s, one night after dinner—and finally settling on blue silk pajamas, as the front door opened and closed again. It was the Book, done in record time. A few moments later, Cassidy was at her door, holding the Book.

“Hi, Mom,” Her teenage daughter says shyly, as though she was new to the place. Miranda looks at her from her place in the closet and smiles affectionately. The girl receives the smile and warms up considerably, like ice thawing in the summer sun. “Here’s the Book.”

Cassidy gives her the book and sits on the bed, waiting for something.

A few minutes later, Cassidy says, plainly, “I miss Andy. So does Caroline.”

Miranda smiles. She sits next to her, wraps an arm around her and holds her close. Cassidy smiles back at her as both of them sit there. The Book lies on the bedside table, on top of the earlier package. “You miss Andrea. She got to you and Caroline, didn’t she?”

“That she did. She got to you too, Mom.”

“Really,” Miranda said, her voice betraying her amusement. “How is that so?”

“Well, for one, you’ve started eating less during dinner. And you’re skipping dessert.”

“Mommy’s on a diet, darling,” Miranda lied. “For the benefit.”

Cassidy chuckled and rolled her eyes, much like she would. Or like Andrea would, if she heard what Miranda was saying right now. “Which is at least four months away, Mom. You’re worrying Andrew. The last time I saw him he was looking up an eating disorders page.”

“Tell your brother that he has nothing to worry about.”

“What would you like for dinner, Mom?”

“What is there to eat?”

“Macaroni and cheese. There’s salad too, if you’re really on that diet.” Cassidy replied. Macaroni and cheese. Ever since Lucia, her chef, made them macaroni and cheese for dinner, Miranda had it made at least once a week. It was Andrea’s favorite dish. Her heart tugged just a little bit more. She missed Andrea. Her nights weren’t really going well, and if she didn’t shake this off soon, she would be forced to hear from her own staff that she looked like hell.

Which, of course, was completely unacceptable.

“Let’s eat then. I'll have the mac and cheese and the salad,” Miranda said affectionately. “And I’ll have some of that ice cream.”

After two servings of macaroni and cheese and a scoop of vanilla ice cream—the term ‘comfort food’ rang true to its name—Miranda felt marginally better than she had in days. She spent most of the night watching television with the kids, as the Book contained a few errors—maybe she should miss Andrea more often, it seemed to sharpen everyone else—and when she finally climbed into bed, at ten forty-five in the evening, she was clutching Andrea’s black, leather-bound photo album and opening the package on her bedside table. Her daughters were in their rooms, Andrew was already asleep, and she was in their bedroom, wearing her glasses. The package was no mistake. It was addressed to her, the sender’s details still unknown.

Once she opened the brown envelope, she shook out its contents and saw five photographs. There was one of Andrew dressing up like Superman. The colors were vivid, and Miranda looked at the picture and saw the day itself. There was a black and white one of Cassidy and Caroline, sitting in her study, smiling at the camera. There was a colored one of all three children, skating at the plaza during winter. When Miranda looked at it, she could almost feel the cold winter breeze. There was one of her, sitting in the sofa, reading the Book. She smiled at that picture and finally picked up the last one, a black and white shot of her and the three children at the beach, the wind blowing their hair. She was carrying a young Andrew as smaller versions of her girls were standing close to her, Caroline pointing out at the open sea while Cassidy had her hands on her waist. The picture was simply marvelous. As Miranda closed her eyes, she could feel the gentle breeze from the sea, as though she was being transported back to that moment.

Just as she was returning the pictures to the envelope, she noticed a note on the back of the last—and her favorite—photograph. It was in Andrea’s handwriting.

_Miranda,_

_When this reaches you, I’ll be away. So far away, I know you’ll probably miss me by_ _then. I hope you and the kids are doing well, and that you love the pictures. They’re the_

 _best I can do and you should really stop being a snob to those cameras on the shelves._ _They love you as much as I do. Take care of yourself, say hi to the kids for me, and_

_don’t give Emily a hard time. She doesn’t have much more weight to lose, darling._

_I love you, and I miss you (and the kids!) everyday,_

  
_Andrea_

She laughed, genuinely, for a few minutes after that note, before she kissed it reverently and tenderly. Five minutes later, she picked up the phone and dialed Andrea’s number.

Andrea Sachs was wolfing down a hotdog sandwich and typing like a madwoman in an average hotel suite, miles away from her family, her bedroom, her children, and her home. She missed Miranda like hell, but if she told the editor, she would probably dismiss it and hang up. Andy thought of the many things that Miranda would say to her. _This is your job, this is your responsibility_ , she thought, laughing briefly at the recollection of the incident. She sobered up and looked at the laptop screen and sighed. It was true. When she left _Runway_ , not only did she leave Miranda (momentarily, anyway), but also the kind of responsibilities that she could do in her sleep. She asked for a writing job, she got a writing job. But on a night that she could be spending at home, curled up in the couch, eating mac n’ cheese ( _how uncouth_ , Miranda would think, as Andy smiled), or (maybe, just maybe) making out in the study, she missed the warmth of her home, her children’s hugs, and the kisses of the person she loved the most.

Who was, in fact, calling her from their townhouse in New York.

Andy checked her laptop screen. It was eight-thirty in the evening, which meant it was eleven-thirty in New York. She idly wondered if Miranda received the pictures, and if she did, what she thought of them. Andy shook her head when she remembered how Miranda dismissed the Diana, the Holga, the Fisheye, and the Horizon cameras when she saw them. She hadn’t allowed the kids to let Miranda see the portraits she took of them. She allowed the phone to ring a few more times before she picked it up, satisfied that Miranda even waited that long.

“How long were you going to shut us out from your world?” Miranda asked, partly amused, partly exasperated, and partly exhausted. Pause. “Hello, darling. How are you?”

“Hi, Miranda.” Andy smiled. Typical. “Are the kids okay?”

“Andrew’s asleep. The twins are still awake, do you want to talk to them?”

“No, it’s fine. I talked to them this afternoon, anyway,” Andy explained. Why was it so hard to say ‘I miss you’? They’ve been together for years. Somehow she felt guilty that she wanted to say it, like Miranda couldn’t feel it from their conversations, like Miranda couldn’t sense how much she wanted to go home, like they had to say it when they should just be able to sense it. “Nigel tells me you’re having a hard time at the office. Are you okay?”

Miranda then snapped at attention, as though someone was about to come in through the door. What was Nigel saying? She was having a hard time? Well, that was an understatement. Andrea had barely been away for more than a week when she started feeling ‘off’. The girl had never been so far away for so long—except for after Paris, of course, but that didn’t really count—and Miranda couldn’t say that she missed her for fear of getting laughed at. Andrea had the knack for turning situations into unexpected jokes sometimes. “I’m fine.”

“Well, in any case, I hope you’re eating.”

“I did.”

“What did you have for dinner?”

“Two servings of your favorite macaroni and cheese and a scoop of ice cream.”

Andy’s eyes widened at the report. Well, that was new. “Great. I’m stuck here with a lousy hotdog sandwich. Why do I feel like I’ve taken the worst job in the world?”

“Because you have, darling.” Miranda replied, as she held her favorite picture. Andy heard the hesitation and the disappointment in her voice and knew that Miranda meant to say that she missed her too. She then smiled widely as she continued to type her article.

A few moments of comfortable silence passed between them, before, apropos of nothing, Miranda said, in that distinct and sweet voice Andy loved, “I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Mmm,” Andy hummed, excited at once. “What do you think?”

“How much should I pay you to take over the September shoot?”

Andy laughed, as she heard Miranda chuckle lightly over the phone. “Are you seriously asking me, Andy Sachs of the _New York Mirror_ , to take pictures for _Runway_ magazine?”

Miranda then asked, “Did you really take the pictures with those cameras?”

Andy rolled her eyes and bit her sandwich. Someday, she was going to have to show Miranda how she did it. “Yes I did, honey. I used all those silly cameras in my room.”

“The pictures are exquisite, Andrea. They’re worthy of an exhibit. What you did was very,” Miranda said, pausing to search for the right word. “Thoughtful.”

“I think I have an idea which one’s your favorite.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, turning it over to read the note again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Andy said. She then looked at her watch and said, “Call you first thing in the morning? I know you have an early day tomorrow.”

Andrea’s thoughtfulness was one of the strongest, if not the strongest point of her character, Miranda thought, as she put the album and the envelope on her bedside table. “Mmm,” Miranda mused, smiling, “I find myself wondering where you really are.”

“Lying next to you in our bed, and soon,” Andy promised. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Miranda replied, as she snuggled into the sheets. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.” Andy paused for a moment, then said, “You never cease to amaze me.”

“So do you.” Miranda paused, and then added, “Sleep well.”

The moment Andy hung up and put her cellphone back on her table, she was filled with that energy that would keep her up well into the evening. She suddenly found herself wanting to do more than just the article she was working on, specifically, she resolved that when she got back to New York, she would take that black and white picture of Miranda, in bed, with her back turned to the window, sunlight filtering through a body covered only in white linen blankets. She would make sure that Miranda placed it in her office, as a reminder of how much Andy loved her. At least there would be one thing in her office that she smiled about.

Miranda leaned back on her pillow, counting down the days until Andrea got home. She would make sure they went to places where her lover would be inspired to take a picture. She wanted those photographs of their family—the ones that really told them what kind they were—and she wanted to watch Andrea take them. She then sighed and snuggled further into the sheets, looking at the pillow facing her.

There were a lot of nights when the prospect of a lone occupant in a four-poster bed was grim and hopeless—ones with Richard, Stephen, and the ones before Andrea came into her life. This was not one of them, and for that, she was profoundly grateful. Because on this one night, just for a moment, it seemed like she never left at all.


End file.
